Before the sunrise
by pianoplayer01
Summary: Christine Daae has been moved to live in Marble house with her Aunt, after being brought up in Venice. The day before the masquerade celebrating the coronation of the new Doge, her father died, leaving her every thing. As she is thrown full force in to a world of travel and confusion, she retraces the paths of her father, trying to find him, but will she find love instead?
1. Chapter 1 - 18th century Venice

Venice – 18th century

The celebrations for the coronation of the first Doge of the century were well under way. The inns were packed with tourists, the ale and gin was flowing more quickly than the river water itself. Not a canal was left in shadows.

On every island, people were preparing for the parade, sewing the finishing touches on to beautiful dresses and polishing brass army medals.

But in one house, there was no celebration. A little girl was wrapping her fathers body in layer after layer of blankets in order to keep him warm, to try and prevent the shivers that wracked his body with cold.

"Pleas papa, you have to stay awake," her own face was streaked with silent tears that bit her ivory skin to an ugly scarlet. "Listen, Papa, I'll ask you questions and you answer them ok?" The old man managed to nod his head slightly before he was overcome by shaking again.

Christine wrapped cloth around his feet, bandaging the sores that covered the toes, fastening the make shift bandages with some hat pins she had found at the back of the medicine cabinet.

"W-where did you and mother meet?" she spoke, her voice maintaining a steady, soft hum that didn't quite fit in the room with the two Daae's. When her father was well, he often spoke of her mother, it always seemed to make them feel better if it felt that some part of her was there with them.

The room was silent, except for the shutters banging against the brick of the house in the wind, rattling the glass panes. The drunks in the street below sang and screamed foul jokes and crude jokes that sent beer bottles crashing to the floor.

"It was – it was-" his breathing was laboured, the sweat on his forehead thick and his shirt stuck to him as though he'd been running for a long time.

"England," she finished for him, using her elbow to hold down a section of cloth whilst she cut the rest of in a hurried line that left it uneven, but it didn't matter so long as it kept out the infection. "You met in London remember? At the party, your friends party, do you – can you remember your friends name?"

Her only reply was a groan as one of the pins pricked his flesh. It wouldn't usually hurt, but he was so weak, so sensitive, every thing seemed to inflict pain. Even the sheets felt like sandpaper to the welts on his skin and the ever growing fever was torture enough, so that at intervals, his arms and legs would swing out to kick the blankets off, but she would hastily tuck them back in.

If he became to cold, the fever would only worsen and make his condition progress the stages beyond what she could fix, he was all that she had left.

"Come Papa, you must keep remembering, I'll give you a clue," her hand brushed her throat, where a sob was stuck, the one which she suppressed and refused to let go. "It began with, a-" she gulped in the sticky summer air trapped in the house, "a C"

He writhed in the bed, groaning and trying to curse, his mouth couldn't form the words. It had been bad before, but never this bad. With shaking hands, Christine reached out to him, moving the hair out of his face. He screamed.

Starting, she rushed to his side, "Where Papa, where does it hurt?" His answer was to cough up blood. It spilled on to the sheets, the colour of death. "Daddy, don't go to sleep, you have to stay awake, you have to!" She was crying now, her fingers frantically stroking his face, trying to cool his fever.

"Léon, Léon!" she cried, her eyes wide and helpless, her hands moving around her father, as though she could heal him simply by tending to the air around him. "You must call for help, father is in worse condition than ever before, I fear for the worst! We must get him help!"

Léon, the Butler, rushed in to the room, reeling in shock before continuing to his mistress and master, as they both lay broken before him. "Look at him, he needs help, go and fetch Doctor Alewood from the inn at once!" Léon simply looked at her for a moment, the shock settling over him like the warmth from a glass of brandy.

"Don't just stand there, run!" she screamed. He snapped out of his still state, rushing out of the room, down the stairs and to the canal, where he threw a bag of coins to the gondolier before jumping inside and shouting the address. The boat set off, drifting away from the cobbled street where the small house stood, pale in the moonlight.

Still by her fathers side, Christine stroked his face, her other hand in his. His screams had quieted and he lay quite still, breathing shallow and his eyes open but unfocused, looking straight past her though she was right in front of him.

"We haven't finished our story yet," she whispered, "the one about how you met mother, but don't worry, I'll finish it for you" her own trembling was growing worse, as though she was drawing out her fathers illness as her own suffering, though it was suffering enough to see him this way, she thought with shame,

"You met her at your friends party, they were celebrating their engagement. It was the middle of spring, the blossoms were blooming on the trees and down the path that led in to the fields was Aurelie Roberts, who had crept away from the party and was reading beneath the biggest tree you'd ever seen." She sniffled and wiped a few of her tears on the back of her sleeve.

"You two talked for hours then, when the night began to dawn, the music from the party flowed out across the garden and you asked her to dance. So enchanted were you with her, that you cancelled returning home for two months, just to court her. Then you proposed, she said yes, you moved back here and bought this house together straightaway. You married before you left, beneath the tree you met and I was born the following year" Towards the end of her speech, her sobs had muffled her speech and left her breathless.

The evening drew on, the parties below only grew louder with the wind which roared, beating its angry fists against the windows, demanding to be let in or it would break its way.

"Papa? Can you hear me you must stay awake! Daddy!" Christine watched her father, who was still now. But she couldn't let him fall asleep, as much as it pained her to wake him up again. But he wasn't responding, and she was shaking his shoulders now. His head slumped to one side.

"Daddy, please wake up! The doctor will be here soon and every thing will be alright!" His eyes opened scarcely and her heart beat fluttered nervously in her chest. With his last strength, he spoke to her, "When I am in heaven child, I will send you the angel of music, the angel – an angel of mus…" his voice trailed off, his eyes remained half opened with heavy purple lids, and his breath ceased. She felt the heart beat stop beneath her hand. "Daddy?" she whispered. The seconds ticked past. She screamed, she screamed for the 48 years that her father had lived, she screamed for her broken heart which was left behind. She screamed for all that was lost.

The kitchen maid hurried in to the room and pulled her away from the body whilst the ladies maid covered the body with a sheet, so that his face could no longer be seen. "He won't be able to breathe! His eyes are open, he's awake!" she was screaming and sobbing like a raving lunatic, she knew he was gone, but he couldn't be, he just couldn't!

"I'm sorry miss," the servants mumbled with hushed tones and lowered gazes, as they locked the door to his room, as they began to cover every thing in the house with sheets and pack her things in to the travelling trunks. She sat there in the parlour, in front of her fathers beloved piano that he had carved beautiful patterns in to. Her fingers stroked the angel carved beneath the music stand; An angel of music.

Her eyes could no longer allow her to weep, over the past month, she had cried away all of her pain. Her final tear was lost as her father lay dying. She grieved him with the best way she could now; with silence.

Charles Daae, the famous violinist, husband of Aurelie Roberts, died age 48 at 10:16pm on the evening of Tuesday 21st of May, 1709. He left behind a violin, his house, a piano and his small fortune, ever thing he owned, to his only daughter Christine Daae. She would come in to possession of every thing when she became the legal age of adulthood; 18. Until then, Charles stated in his will, she was to live with her Aunt Antoinette Giry and her daughter Meg, in their home of Marble Hill, a prosperous estate which resides in South London overlooking the river Thames.

That's why the servants were packing her trunks, after the celebration of the election of the Doge, she would be sent away to England, to live with an aunt she had never ever heard of in a country where she could not speak the language very well and would be entirely alone.

Even the servants were packing their things, ready to look for new work and looking at her with a mix of pity and annoyance at the fact that they would not be paid for the past months work. But the majority of the staff, including Laurelie the ladies maid, grieved for her father as much as she, He had been a kind and generous master, with a general compassion for his staff. He treated them as family.

By the time Léon returned to the house with the doctor, it was too late. Charles Daae was dead before he had even set foot in to the inn.


	2. Chapter 2 - Masquerade

Venice – 18th century

Because of the coronation the following day, no boats could take Christine to England until the celebrations had passed. She could not stay in the house for that long, it had already been locked and the furniture covered, the keys given to the bank. The servants were already in their own homes and new lodgings. At this important time of year, every one was looking for extra help, so it wasn't to hard to find a place to clean a few rooms in exchange for a bed and a meal.

Léon was the last of the servants to go, he would be the one to travel with her to England. He told the footmen where to find her trunks and ensured they were all safely piled in to her room at the inn. To Léon and her own confusion, she had never learned to play, Christine had carted her fathers violin case along with her. "It was his most prized possession," she said, "He would not forgive me if I let it go to waste in a pile of dust."

The inn room at "the Swan" had been difficult to claim. The woman at the till had told them that all of the rooms were full, but at the sight of a few gold coins, they were soon sitting grimly in front of the finest fire place of the entire building.

"You're thinking very hard about some thing," Léon noted, as he watched Christine warming her hands in front of the orange flames that tinted her brown hair with streaks of caramel. "Out with it then," he sighed expectantly, poking at the wooden logs with the iron poker next to his arm chair.

"Its just it's the Masquerade tomorrow and my friends will be expecting me," her eyes looked up with great sadness at the butler, before returning to staring at the sparks jumping from the flames, "I just don't know how I'll be able to leave without saying goodbye, they don't even know about father"

Léon watched her for a quiet moment before he spoke with the most authority any one had since the events of the previous hours. "What on earth are you talking about child? Of course you will be going to the Masquerade! You'll see them there"

Startled by the enthusiasm in his voice, Christine looked up in shock. "Surely you must be joking sir, for my father has just died!" Her voice was rising and her chest heaving in a fit of passion that stained her cheeks red and made her eyes glint like the fires made only by pixies under a full moon.

"In case you have forgotten, my father was a great man and he would –" "Not have wanted you sitting around like a ninny on his behalf," he cut her off. Under her scrutinising glare he continued, breathing a sigh of relief that she had not yet bitten his head off his shoulders, as a mother bear defends her cub. "You should go to the Masquerade, try to be happy for a few hours. I'm not saying forget your father, I would never tell you to do that. But Christine, this is your last 48 hours in Venice, you need to say goodbye to it too, so that you don't remember it as simply a place of ghosts."

Christine looked away from him. With her voice thick and bleary she seemed to beg of him, "but what if I don't?" Léon shook his head with a small weary smile appearing on his face, "Then that is your own fault for being blind enough to mask yourself with stupidity." Her nose twitched as she looked up at him with a furrowed and confused expression. "What do you mean?"

Léon massaged his face with his hands, leaning forwards so that his elbows rested upon his knees. "It was his last surprise to you," the muffled voice came from behind his hands, before they lowered. "We were made not to tell you, we had to promise. Even on his – well you know, he was a fearsome creature to behold," he chuckled slightly, bringing his hands together and resting them against his lips as though in prayer.

"Tell me what?" she asked curiously, brushing a stray curl from her eyes. He smiled at her warmly. "did you not wonder why there is an extra trunk? Go and see for yourself!" At this, Léon unclasped a chain from around his neck and handed it to her. On it was a small golden key, engraved with a small C.

Slow to her feet, she stumbled over in her half asleep state to the trunks in the corner of the room. Usually there were two trunks, one containing fine dresses, and the other casual daily wear and shoes. But surely enough, next to the two trunks and the violin case was a third trunk, made of chestnut and engraved again with her initials around the golden lock. With trembling fingers, she unlocked it, sitting before it for some minutes before she finally managed to open it.

Léon glanced curiously from his arm chair, for he too wondered what was in the contents of the box. True to his word, he had not looked inside the box, but had kept it safe for Christine. "Well, aren't you going to open it?" he questioned as he saw he hunched before it, staring at it, as though with her eyes alone it would open.

"Yes, yes of course" she whispered, though it felt like she was talking to herself. The lid opened gradually as she pushed it back, heavy as the tree it was carved from. They both held their breath as the light from the oil lamp began to cast a rosy glow on the contents. She gasped in a breath, and Léon's jaw dropped practically to the floor.

For there in the trunk was the most beautiful dress Christine had ever seen, with a mask placed neatly on top. "Léon, did you know about this?" she gestured to the dress, too afraid to touch it. "No miss, I – its such a – I really don't know what to – " he stood speechless beside her. This costume would have cost a near fortune. Some thing else caught her eye, a small card tucked in to the corset.

Breaking the seal, she read it aloud:

_My dearest Christine,_

_In celebration of the Doge and of your commitment to my ill health throughout the past year, I believed that you were in need of some good. So here for you, darling daughter is your very own Daisy Mantua Masquerade costume, so that you too, can take a rest and be seen for the princess you are. _

_From your loving father_

_Charles_

"Holy mother of pearl!" Léon whispered as his eyes caressed the fabric of the dress inside the trunk, still neither of them touched it or dare to believe it was real. "Yes, it is," Christine whispered with a small smile on her lips, lifting the mask, which was indeed, made from pearl crushed and mixed with fine china white porcelain. The outside was framed with red ribbon, the eyes decorated with thousands of swirling red roses, their green leaves various patterns that gradually flailed away in to the plain white pearl. It was by far the most beautiful thing Christine had ever seen; there it was, in her hands. Hers.

"I cant believe he did this," she spoke with reverence, looking up to the painted ceiling and imagining her fathers face in place of the cherubs flying around in the clouds there. "Why look, there are even hair decorations!" "Now Christine," Léon seemed to snap out of his awe struck trance.

"As much as I would love to allow you to try on this beautiful dress right this instance, it is early morning, and much has happened this evening, it is high time for bed I think"

Christine nodded, stroked the mask once more, and then placed it in the trunk on top of the dress. "Your night dress is on your bed through there," he pointed.

She walked through with a hasty "good night," falling exhausted in to her bed, the linen smelling of canal water and the grease the inn used to cook food. Her mind was flitting around like a dragon fly, so much had happened in so little time. It felt as though days had passed, when only one had.

Through the exhaustion, she found herself with her hands clasped tight together, her eyes closed, her mind wide open. "Dear God, please take care of my papa now that he is in your care. I do not cry for him, for I know that he is with my mother and that they will be happy again. I know that papa did not get to tell me every thing he wished to in the little time I was lucky enough to know him, so I beg that you might assist me in my search for what remains of him here on earth, so that I might know him better. Please let him know, that I will be waiting on his promise that I shall strive to make him, mother and the angel of music proud. Amen"

The wind out side rattled, a chained prisoner, as Christine shook our her curls more comfortably on to her pillow and fell asleep just as the oil lamp went out.

The morning came, ironically, like a thief in the night, arriving with no suspicion, no warnings and blinding those unlucky enough to have forgotten to close the curtains. Christine was one of those unlucky souls, but the sunlight only made her smile. "Good morning Papa" she yawned, stretching out like a cat, her fingers reaching out in to nothingness.

Before the church bells had even begun to ring to wake the late night party goers of the evening before, Christine was on her feet at the wash basin and then rushing through to the main parlour to pick up her costume and begin preparations.

Some how, she managed to brush her own wild curls without assistance, fasten her corset tightly enough to project the illusion of the fashionable wasp waist and pull on the dress, in the space of an hour, so that she had just enough time to wake up Léon before leaving to meet her friends at the festival.

Before leaving, she admired her reflection, her eyes speculative and unsure whether the creature staring back from the looking glass was actually her. But there, sure enough, she stood.

The dress was of the deepest red, its skirts and petticoats unravelling like rose petals, revealing just enough to see that her shoes were decorated with a pattern of leaves and thorns. The bodice was intricately embossed with a pattern in an even darker red, so dark, it could almost be believed to be black. In her hair was a wreath made of synthetic twigs, green leaves and red roses fully bloomed, some just bursting from the bud in to bloom. And the mask, the centre piece, covered her face in a way that still revealed how beautiful she was, making her eyes look like those of a Doe's.

Stepping from the room with a grace of a woman who has seen much of the world, sixteen year old Christine was unrecognisable even to the dear old butler, who looked upon her with such pride you could have believed she was his own daughter.

"You look exquisite, my dear" he bid, bowing and kissing her hand, before escorting her to the door. "Your carriage will wait at 1 o'clock after the walk of the Turk. You will find it just past the Canal Grand where the land evens out - I shall miss you much, it has been a pleasure serving you." His smile was watery as he bowed again to her.

"For your kindness I am thankful, my friend, I would not have survived the night without your assistance. I know that my father is grateful and proud to have been served by a man such as you" With that, she smiled, turned on her heel and was gone, leaving in her wake, a trail of awed servants, all wondering who the beautiful woman dressed in roses was.

Léon smiled sleepily, scratched his head and, thinking about breakfast of course, closed the door on the morning's chaos.

As she walked in to the courtyard, Christine clapped her hands in delight, for every where there was colour and life and laughter. In one corner, a childs puppet show was taking place, depicting the tale of an old German folk tale from Salzburg, that told of the Pied piper playing his music that was so hypnotising, all of the children followed him in to his magical world and were never seen again.

The canal streets were lined with games and stalls selling enchanting remedies and possessions. One was selling dried flowers that could cure any cough, another charms to scare away ghosts and vampires from the door in place of a witch hazel tree. The most charming stall, Christine found, was selling music boxes. She wandered over in curiosity.

A young boy, not much older than her, was standing behind it, with unruly black hair he seemed to have tamed by combing back, with a black waist coat and red shirt, with the sleeves drawn up to his elbows to reveal muscular fore arms. His face was decorated with mask shaped like a skull, with two red feathers blooming from the top.

"We match" she smiled shyly, and his eyes widened as he looked back at her. "How can I be of service, my lady?" He bowed his head slightly after recovering from the dazzling sight that was Christine.

"I was just wondering who made all of these music boxes, they are the most enchanting things I have ever seen!" Her fingers softly stroked one decorated with a monkey cross legged with cymbals in its hands. As her fingers touched its face, it sprung in to life, playing a Celtic tune she remembered her mother singing to her before her death.

"That would be myself Miss," he spoke, his voice clarent and clear, far more like that of an upper-class business man, than a lowly peasant boy found on the market.

"Forgive my boldness, sir," she bid still studying him as his eyes burned into hers making her blush behind her mask, "But what on earth are you doing here? These are fine enough to allow you to travel the world, to be amongst the richest people and dine every night in Paris, yet you stay in a small Venice market, where only us can see them"

His gaze seemed to freeze at her comment, then soften as he realised she was being sincere and not mocking him. "That's most kind of you. I have travelled previously, but found that it was high time I found some where to rest-"

"Why-" Christine giggled delicately "You speak with some one twice your age." His fingers fiddled with the edge of his mask as he replied, his tone some what upset by her comment.

"The world is a cruel place, the people in it far more so, and I find myself tired of people who only like me for what they see, for what I possess is what I want to be seen for" The silence emanated between the two for a moment, then Christine bowed her head as she spoke, admiring once more the lovely materials that made the music boxes. "I think I understand, my father was recently taken to the otherworld"

"I'm sorry" he drawled the sincerity impossible to be guessed at or understood. "Just last night," she nodded, "The doctor got there far too late, so I am unsure whether or not to curse or enjoy these festivities, I know he would wish me to, yet it is quite difficult"

At this, the stall owner closed the shutters to the stall, reappearing beside her a minute later, locking them so that no one could steal his work. "I believe I can help with that" He smiled, offering her his hand. "Please, call me Erik"

Christine blushed further, smiled up at him and placed her hand in his. "And I'm Christine" His returning smile was worth ten thousand Soldi. "Christine Daae"

"Well, Miss Daae, I am Mr Destler," he laughed, placing her arm in his and escorting her over to the small folk band that was playing a waltz. "Might I ask you for this dance?" She threw back her head to laugh and it felt so good to. "You may"

And so they danced, for so long, they both forgot that they might need to stop to breathe again. People danced and left, but they remained, until Rosalind arrived to bid Christine goodbye. She presented her with a small bracelet, a bead carved like a rose attached to it, which she said would link them forever. Christine smiled, presenting her with the crown of roses she wore, only for Rosalind to refuse it, saying that it suited Christine too well.

By the time Rosalind had left, Christine and Erik were walking by the Canal side. The walk of the Turk was well under way, and the young lady most beautiful in all the city had been chosen to sit by the Doge.

"I don't know how the Doge did not choose you, little rose bud; your smile is the most enchanting of all the women there. Their light cannot compare to yours"

"Why good sir, you charm more than the pied piper and his magical music" Eriks eyes flashed with hidden humour at this. "Why that's all magic of course" he bid, though his voice suggested he believed otherwise.

The people cheered from the town, and another dance took place, with all of the ladies linking arms on one side and the men on the other. This dance was always used to mark the end of the festival and Christine felt her heart breaking as the seconds before the carriage arrived began to tick by.

"I am sorry Erik, but I must go," she sighed. He caught her hand, "I very much wish to see you again," he whispered. She smiled sadly. "As much as I wish to see you again, I cannot, I am to be gone to England in just a few minutes." His expression fell, his charming smile crumpling in to a heart stricken expression of sadness.

"Leave? But you cannot! I have only just found you, we cannot part again!" Startled by his manner of speaking, but understanding it, she took his hands in hers and entwined their fingers. "I know, but I have no choice." Suddenly, springing with an idea, she took out her handkerchief and lipstick, writing the address for Marble Hill house.

"If you ever feel the need to travel again, or even just to write, this is the address where you will find me and I shall wait for you there"

He held the handkerchief delicately in his hand, as though he was scared of creasing it, should it cause any loss to this waking dream.

"I shall be with you again soon," he smiled, "But until then, my loveliest Christine," He bowed, taking her hand and kissing it.

"Good bye, Erik Destler" she sighed, as he carriage pulled up and she climbed in with the help of the foot men. As the sunset on the horizon, she looked back to where they had stood. Eriks gaze filling her mind, she could have sworn that on the ground there was a single red rose, with a black ribbon tied around its stem.


	3. Chapter 3 - A voyage across the sea

A voyage across the sea

Much to Christines surprise, sitting beside her was a letter, which when she opened it, she discovered was from Léon. "Dear Christine" She read.

_After the death of your father, it was my duty to escort you to your new home in England, however I am afraid that I cannot. I have some unattended business here to attend to, including sorting through your fathers final payments alongside making sure all that is left to you is stored correctly, so that when the time comes, it will not be too difficult for you to come home and find it. I hope you have a safe journey, and you should be hearing from me again soon,_

_Your affectionate friend and humble servant_

Léon

She folded the letter and put it back in to the envelope. It would be such a tiring journey without him, though from the beginning she had suspected the only reason he stayed to care for her was out of pity. Every one needs some one, and in his eyes it must have seemed that she was alone with need of some one to care for her.

Her hands fiddled with the mask which she had taken of her face to prevent sweating, as she would not be able to wash for a few hours, and wanted to remain as clean as possible. Christine looked out of the window and saw for miles around nothing but water and endless planes of land. It was so lonely, not a single boat or house in sight, just some horses grazing in the meadows and overhead, some sky larks circling lower and lower only to surge right back up in to the clouds again.

She found herself slipping in to unconsciousness as she wished more and more, that she could be like those birds. In her dreams, she was safe, wrapped in the world that only existed inside her head, that nobody else could break in to and destroy. It was funny, she thought, her mind was almost like a little house. There was the place where she kept her thoughts, a form of library that served as a giant library, with ladders leading up to the top shelves, the thoughts that she had put away for now, or forgotten about.

In the next room was a sitting room, where she would be able to sit and keep company should her father or mother ever visit. A fire burned warmly in the hearth, with a table for placing tea upon. ' But I don't suppose one can drink tea in ones own head' was her response. But the dream was rather pretty, as full of fancy as it seemed.

A garden, where each flower symbolised a dream or a person. As she began to wake up, her eyelids remained closed, just so she could continue with these thoughts. Her father, why he would be a water reed to symbolise music - for he was the music of the world. Her mother would be a lily, which in celtic meaning (just as her name had) meant beautiful and care free breeze. And Erik, he would be the red rose. Her favourite bloom and also the most meaningful. Friendship, compassion. Deepest of love and affections. That was him, and she had not even known him longer than a day. Yet already, she could feel the beginning of some thing. It wasn't over yet. It couldn't be.

The carriage rolled on over the rickety pathway, so often left abandoned for months on end during the winters, that it became inexistent and was difficult to track where the grass and wild flowers over grew again. No one cared for this place, but it was quite easily a place a lonely person could relate to. It symbolised all the empty unspoken feelings that could not be expressed from the persons own heart.

The sun had set four and half hours previously, leaving the world outside bleakly cold, the wind whistling in a hollow kind of way and Christine couldn't wait to rest in a comfortable bed on the boat. At least she hoped she would be comfortable, travelling along Canals was one thing, but on such a large body of water was entirely another and she dreaded the talk of seasickness.

Her heart beat began to pick up again, so she went back to her thoughts, resting her head against the soft grey cushioning of the seat, her eyes gazing out at the navy sky above, her fingers dancing with the rose bead that was attached to the fabric bracelet Rosalind had given her.

At the school in Venice, Christine had just finished her exams and had been looking forward to leaving to find a job. Her, Rosalind and a few of their other friends including Aelwyn and Marie were considering applying for jobs in the clothing stores or the small water shops that served coffee to the tourists.

The clothes shop in Venice, were the finest and most expensive around. The floor alone looked as though it would cost too much to walk on. Some of the stores were even lucky enough to have forms of lighting less difficult than oil lamps. The seamstresses were of astounding ability, they could make a dress fit you like a glove if you gave them ten minutes and half of your bank account, if you were lucky enough to become their apprentice, you would go far in life. But now Christine would never know if she would become the new florist making heart shaped bouquets on valentines day, or the seamstress at Bluebells, making dresses from the finest velvet imported from Paris or the silk imported from China. Maybe she would never even get to visit those places as she had so often dreamed throughout childhood.

Her mind wandered further in to countless labyrinths, wondering what it would be like if she could have stayed with Erik. Would it have been like with Marguerite, one of the girls at the school, who had fallen in love with the stable boy and been married so young she did not even get the opportunity to consider a job or life without a husband? No, Christine thought, Erik was different than those other boys around Venice, he was a gentlemen, he wouldn't have taken advantage of her.

In her mind, she saw herself graduating, them travelling from place to place for a few years. They would settle in a country side cottage, where they would own some farmland to make a living. No, they would live in a city and go to the theatre every night, surviving from the money that Erik made with his beautiful music boxes.

Then, one day, he would take her out to dinner at a restaurant by the sea, where the water would be so clear you could see right down to the ship wrecks at the bottom. He would point some thing out to her, like a flounder or a dolphin, she would turn to look and when she turned back around, and he would be bent one knee with a ring, asking her to be his bride. To be his wife. And they would live happily ever after.

Sighing, Christine shook her head, her eyebrows previously arched peacefully as though in sleep, furrowing causing creases to mark the soft cream of her fore head. No, none of that would ever happen now. Even if it did, they had not yet even see each other face to face. They did not know one another at all in all truth, as much as she wished that they did.

"We're at the quay miss, its time for you to board for England," the kindly coach driver called as the foot men opened the door and helped her out of the coach. "Thankyou," she called back as he tipped his hat. Clutching her shawl about her, she boarded, praying for warmth once she stepped inside.

As soon as she boarded the boat, she became lost in the sea of people entering and leaving down the wooden ramp that had been placed to make things easier. She could see the footmen stacking her trunks in the luggage room by the main entrance and headed there.

Once through the small glass doors, she was able to sigh in relief at the warmth that emanated from the thick insulating materials surrounding the floors. Still clutching her shawl to her in case of a draft, she approached the main desk where she collected her key and got directions to her room.

She found it at the end of the passage way. It was plain enough, her clothes trunk was at the end of a small bed covered with a rag quilt and there was a chamber pot placed beneath the bed, a portal above the pillow, with a wash basin and a jug of water on top of a wooden night stand, a clock on the wall opposite the bed.

Despite being used to slightly more luxurious back grounds, Christine felt at home in this lonely empty room with the blue carpets, it made her feel safe, in a way where she didn't have to face any one or make peace with any one else except herself.

"What do you think Papa?" she found herself whispering, turning to ask his opinion, only to remember that he was not there. That he wouldn't be there again. It felt like he was dying in front of her all over again. She knew it would feel this way, it was this way when her mother died so long ago. But she had the luxury of forgetting.

Brushing aside the moment, replacing it with thoughts of masquerades and monkey music boxes that played Celtic melodies, she dressed for supper, breathing a sigh of relief as she removed her corset, only to feel the ache as she replaced it with a clean one.

Her dinner dress was nothing fancy; it was made of pale blue cotton with a pattern of daisies sewn onto a ribbon around the waist. It flowed down to her angels, making her feel presentable, as she feared that the British may be stricter.

Her own mother, she recalled, was not fully British. She had been born in Austria, near to Germany, and had moved to England when she got a scholarship to an all girls boarding school where she had studied music and literature.

Once she was dressed, she picked up her key and locked the door behind her once she was in corridor. There was a small pocket where the ribbon sash tied around her waist, so she tucked the key in to it, so that it would be safe and hidden. Then she walked to the space that she had been told was the dining room.

It was lit entirely by candles, with small tables each with a white table cloth and shining cutlery laid out neatly around a metal plate, menus standing in a cardboard folder in the middle. All of the tables were full, so she pulled a waiter to one side and asked if he might help her find some where to sit, some one who wouldn't mind her as an additional presence.

"Of course miss, I'd be happy to," smiled a young man, who had dimples when he smiled. He looked only 12 or 13, far too young to be working already, yet here he was. Nodding her appreciation, she followed him through the crowds of people making orders and plates full of steaming shrimp, until finally she was being introduced to a table surrounded by six people all whom smiled up to her as the waiter asked if she could sit there.

One of the women stood up, a smile decorating her tiny face, "Why, of course! Aren't you the prettiest little thing!" she linked arms with her and directed her to the empty seat by her side. "We will be fast friends I am sure, you must sit by me of course!"

Christine smiled apologetically at the waiter boy who simply muffled a laugh, bowed and returned to the kitchen with a cloth hanging over his arm. "Now, we must make proper introductions to you," smiled the woman. "My name is Jammes Debut, but every one calls me little Jammes, because I'm so small for my age," she giggled, lighting up her eyes and making her pinks turn pink.

Come to think of it, Christine thought, that may have been through her drinking too much of the Port wine which was on sale here.

Turning to the other five members of the table, Jammes gestured her hand to each of them as she introduced them. "This here," she gestured in front of her, "This here is Clara Prose, she is the best with styling her hair, she taught me how to do mine when I first started dancing!" As Clara shook Christines hand over the table, Christine turned her head to Jammes.

"Dancing?" she asked curiously. "Why yes!" Jammes smiled, her eyes wide suggesting that she thought Christine mad for asking. "We all work at the Opera Garnier, you have heard of it of course?" Christine shook her head apologetically, "No, I'm afraid not, only the Italian opera companies are spoken of in Venice…"

"That's why you talk so funnily then" Jammes cooed, "I thought you had an accent but I couldn't guess it, you speak English very well, much better than me, Oh Je suis Jalox!" Clara giggled at her friends silliness and pinched her fingers affectionately.

"I was so caught up in our conversation that I forgot every one else," she gasped, looking over to the rest of the table. They, for the record, seemed not to have even noticed, discussing sums and accounts, whilst slurping up platters of sea food.

Christine soon found out that next to Clara was Remy Landau, the secretary to the stage managers, who were absent as of current as they were making final changes to scripts in their cabins.

Next to Remy was Comte Philippe De Chagny, one of the rich patrons of the opera "Populaire" who was sat beside the other patron (his younger brother) The Vicomte De Chagny, Raoul.

The final person at the table was sat on next to Raoul, and she was fawning over him, like one might imagine a kitten crawling over ones arms restlessly when in want of attention or going out side. Her name was Carlotta, and though Christine was not one to be hostile, she felt a sudden surge of fear at the name. This woman, although appearing gentle enough, seemed almost like a serpent. Christine was not unaware of how bold women could be, Venice was no place of only virtue, but people generally conducted themselves well. Whereas this woman was literally throwing herself all over the Vicomte. She could not tell whether or not this displeased him. He carried on eating his meal, dipping some shrimp in to a glass of sauce.

Clara lowered her voice to a whisper as she leaned in to Christine, covering her mouth with her half empty wine glass. "She is the Prima donna at the Opera house, she was once great, came all the way from Spain, but now her voice is old and has deepened, yet still she stays on season after season," Clara rolled her eyes, sipping from the glass.

"You wouldn't believe half of the tantrums she has, if any thing is out of control she becomes absolutely furious and quits on the spot. The managers always go grovelling, after all, how could they not! They have no other star, and despite how horrible she is, you cannot deny her beauty" Jammes sighed, half in irritation, the other half in adoration.

Christine continued to eat, but as she did, she sneaked glances up at Carlotta. She had long curly red hair that fell down to her waist, with large green eyes the colour of a sea after a storm has passed. When she smiled, traces of orange, the colour of her hair, would sparkle in them.

She was dressed like a queen, with rubies dripping from her neck and emeralds coating her wrists. She even thought that the diamond tiara she wore might be real. But such things were only objects, it was them that was beautiful truly, not the woman. Coated with sugar, Christine believed this woman had a sting like that of a wasp.

As the evening wore on, Christine found her eyes flickering from Carlotta to the gentlemen beside her. Raoul his name was, she thought she recalled, as Jammes and Clara chatted happily about upcoming auditions for a ballet production of Giselle that the opera were putting on to celebrate the coming of spring.

He was quite handsome, with shortish long hair, the colour of brown you associate with violin polish, whereas her own hair was deeper, the colour of milk chocolate. His eyes were pale blue and they twinkled when he laughed, which was often. His brother seemed even lighter, his hair blonde and short, his eyes so blue they were almost milky. Together they made a charming family. Dressed in evening dress of the finest quality, clearly imported, it was quite obvious that they were rich.

She was broken from her thoughts, when a man wearing a red bow tie walked on to the stage, some cue cards in his hand. "It is my great pleasure to welcome you to the entertainment for this evening, which is singing. If you wish to perform for this lovely audience, please come and discuss with our small pit orchestra what you would like to sing. Thankyou!"

The people at the tables applauded politely, before going back to their meals. Carlotta waited for a few seconds, before hastily rising, lifting her skirts slightly so that she did not fall over them, and then rushing over to the orchestra as she saw another young lady rising on the table behind them.

"Do you sing Christine?" Clara asked, Jammes looking around eagerly for other performers. "Its going to be a competition in the end you know," she squealed excitedly, "and people are going to try and beat Carlotta!" Pouting, she frowned, "I wish some one would, but I don't think they will"

Carlotta began to sing, the sound was spot on yes, but it was harsh, forced and it echoed in Christines head despite her being so far from the stage.

Half way through the song, she told her companions she needed to use the powder room, before fleeing through the shadows at the side of the room to the conductor, whispering in his ear that she would like to perform a piece called "The last rose of summer" next. He nodded, his mouth lifting gently in a half smile of recognition, before he went back to conducting the accompaniment for Carlotta.

When Carlotta had finished, the gentlemen who had introduced the entertainment walked back on to the stage, as the applause reeled in. "Excellent! Well, does any one dare to rival that performance? Who shall challenge Miss Guidacelli?"

The conductor tapped his baton on the stand before speaking clearly, "Miss Christine Daae will do it sir!" whispers went out around the crowd, and Carlotta looked down in to the pit with a mixture of amusement, anger and pity. She was so sure of herself. For some reason, Chrisine felt compelled to show her that music was not about being sure of yourself, it was about expression, about compassion, about feeling emotion. Knowing the words which you sung and relating to them.

"Thankyou Mr Lefrevre, and now ladies and gentlemen, Miss Christine Daae" Again, polite applause went out through the audience as Christine stepped on to the stage, a dark hallway of shadow and candle light twinkling like a starry night all of its own inside before her.

The orchestra played the soft introduction and she inhaled before she began:

'Tis the last rose of summer left blooming alone  
All her lovely companions are faded and gone  
No flower of her kindred, no rosebud is nigh  
To reflect back her blushes and give sigh for sigh

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one, to pine on the stem  
Since the lovely are sleeping, go sleep thou with them  
Thus kindly I scatter thy leaves o'er the bed  
Where thy mates of the garden lie scentless and dead

So soon may I follow when friendships decay  
And from love's shining circle the gems drop away  
When true hearts lie withered and fond ones are flown  
Oh who would inhabit this bleak world alone?  
This bleak world alone

As the final note trailed away, the crowd jumped to its feet, applauding her with thunder and rain, applauding for her with all of the light in the world, Making the future and the present seem a little less dimmer.

"It seems we have our star!" the announcement manager beamed, taking her hand and bowing with her. Christine smiled out looking over towards her table. She saw Jammes and Clara jumping up and down cheering, she saw the secretary smiling quietly, beside them the patrons were smiling hugely, but this was nothing new, they were always smiling. And at the head of the table, Carlotta had a look on her face that rivalled that of Medusa. It seemed to scream green loathing and jealousy. Christine simply smiled meekly at her.

She had won the battle, but there was still a days voyaging to England, who knows what she would encounter when it came to the war. Some thing told her that it wasn't over yet. Like when she left Erik earlier that afternoon, it seemed that some thing wasn't finished. There was much still in store.

As she lay in bed that night, a small smile lay on her face as she dreamed of a masked man playing the piano, with her sat by his side, a small ring glinting on her finger.

The next morning, Christine slept in so that by the time she rose to say goodbye to her French friends, it was only an hour before the boat docked there to let them off.

She dressed in her grey travelling dress with the shell buttons, wrapping herself in a black cape and the red scarf that her father had bought her when she was only eight years old. He had been on a trip to Italy to visit her uncle who had a daughter called Luciana, who had suggested it as a present. It had been Christines favourite ever since.

When the boat docked, Christine walked out on to the shore to bid her goodbyes, simply because she had grown to care for them greatly despite not knowing them for more than a few hours. Plus, she wanted to be able to claim, though she wasn't sure to whom, that her feet had touched French soil.

Carlotta simply glared at her and stormed off, at which Jammes rolled her eyes and Clara fell to the ground in a fit of laughter, which soon attracted Philippes attention and he winked at her which made her blush even more than her laughing had caused.

Just as Christine had climbed back on to the deck, a gust of wind blew her scarf over board in to the water that was at the base of the harbour. "My scarf!" she cried out, reaching for it, but the wind had already plunged it down.

Raoul seeing her distress, but not hearing her voice over the wind, saw the scarf fall and dived in to the ocean after it, then racing dripping wet up the ramp, before it could be packed away. "Your scarf mademoiselle" he beamed at her. "Thankyou Monsieur" she beamed back, wrapping it round her neck. "I should wish to repay you for your kindness, but I do not know how." Smiling at her, he pulled out paper and a pencil. "I should very much like to write to you, your address would be more than enough" Scrawling it out, Christine handed it back to her.

He caught her hand before it fell and kissed it. "Aurevoire!" he bid her with a wave, as the ships horn blared and he raced down the wooden ramp. Jammes made kissy faces which made Christine laugh. She waved and waved, until France was nothing but a tiny dot and they were docking in England. Only then did she stop waving, her stomach churning with the promise of a new life. Looking back once over the boat, with a weight in her stomach, she walked out on to the harbour.

And on to British soil.


	4. Chapter 4 - on English soil

On English soil

Aunt Giry was waiting for her by the newspaper stand, talking to the man who stood at the register there. His moustache was long and twirled up at the ends as though he had used scissors to do so. He reminded Christine of the Gondoliers back home in – No, she thought. Venice wasn't home any more. It hadn't been since her fathers heart stopped beating.

"Aunt Antoinette?" Christine spoke timidly, her hands clenched in to fists behind her back. Bidding the stall man goodbye, Antoinette turned around, looking Christine up and down in a way that showed no particular emotion before nodding sharply at her and beginning to walk away. Figuring that this meant she should follow, Christine trotted along obediently behind, whilst the footmen trailed with the trunks.

"You may call me Madame," she bid in a tone that was heavily accented. "You are a teacher Aun- Madame?," Christine asked curiously, her feet dodging lose stones on the path that lead up the carriage.

"I am a ballet instructor at the Opera Garnier in Paris," Christine was about to open her mouth to ask why she was not there now and to tell her that she had met some of her students on the boat when Madame began to speak again, leaving empty words hanging in her mouth like a bad taste.

"My daughter Meg needed caring for, since her father died of heart failure when she was fourteen years old. The opera has bid me leave to teach her until she is 16 years old, then I must return." There was an irrevocable tone of duty in the woman's tone that hung almost as thickly as her French accent. She was clothed in a simple black dress, that one might wear to a funeral and her hair, the same colour as Christines, was thickly braided and wrapped twice around her head with pins to keep it in place.

Although she couldn't see Madame's eyes, she wondered if they would be light and laughing like the dancers she had met, but some thing informed her that they would be dark and sharp, the intelligent kind that ravens possess as they caw with the church bells.

In her hand she carried a long staff, which she leaned on heavily as she walked, despite being so light and frail of structure. Christine could not imagine this woman in any kind of dancers dress, she seemed too strict, too old, to ever have been able to twirl around with the grace of the air.

Arriving at the carriage, Madame Giry hopped on to one side, placing her staff across the rest of the seat, so that Christine had no option other than to sit facing Madame Giry by the window. Taking the footman's hand, she stepped inside. The carriage was much grander than the one from Venice, with seats cloaked in velvet with gold trim, the glass panes in the window thicker and more likely to keep out rain water, which was good, as the clouds over head were dark in the early evening.

Looking up at a sound, Christine saw that Madame Giry had set down her cloak and taken from a pocket in it a book, which she held again with a raven like similarity, her bony hands acting as talons.

Madame snapped her head up the minute she heard Christine shift in her seat. Their eyes met, both startled in different amounts. Studying one anothers faces with no warmth.

Madames eyes were indeed dark, but it shocked Christine that they were only dark because of the sorrow there, in colour they were almost grey like the rain, like the story of a Japanese lady that had been in the newspapers a while ago.

Her face was as jaunt and oddly angled as her hands, the bones protruding in a way that suggested they might burst from the skin. The face of a dancer obsessed. But her mouth possessed no sweetness or suggestions of charming grace; it was set in a hard pink line, no trace of rouge or lip paint apparent.

She was definitely not a woman to be meddled with, she thought, making a promise to never find out what Madame was like when she was not being nice. She was studying Christine's face with a burning intensity, one that showed mixed emotions, finally settling on sadness, softening in a definitive amount that removed a little of the sharpness from her, rounding her face.

"Your father was a great man," she spoke, "And a very dear friend. He will be missed much, as will your mother" Christine's eyes widened and she found herself speaking out of turn, for she had not been addressed directly. "You knew both my mother and father?" The childlike awe could not be hidden.

Madame laughed an odd sound that did not seem to fit her for it was too yellow, like the spring time, and not like grey, like her coldness and the edges of her long hair.

"Once, long ago, before the turn of this new century. They were both dear friends of mine. Why, it was at my engagement party that they met," At this she turned back to her book, seeming almost bored as her voice trailed off, but Christine was curious now, she did not care if she was talking out of turn; there was information here, about her parents and she was desperate to know.

"Please Au-Madame," she gulped, tucking stray hairs back behind her ears. "But my father and mother met at their friend Christine and Jacque's engagement party, I am named after her…"

The silence that ensued caused a warm smile to grow on Madame's face, but no words were spoken. Fearing that no more would be spoken, Christine spoke up anxiously, "Why you must be mistaken for your name-" "I know it seems odd," she interrupted sighing, looking up out of the carriage window at the blur of trees and woodland that flew past, with the ever blackening night sky.

With a resigned breath, she closed her book, stroked the cover and placed it beside her face down. "When I was a young girl, I fell in love with my husband, we met on the outskirts of France in the middle of winter. We did not want our parents to know of our courting, so when we wrote to one another, we would use different names. He became Jacque, though his real name was Ralph," her hands twitched nervously as she turned back to Christine, eyes already so open that it was a confusing comparison to the silent woman of moments before.

"I used my middle name, Christine," the silence stretched out for another few moments. "From that day on, the names stuck and when we did tell people of our engagement, people were as shocked as could be, not many stood by us at first as loyally as your parents did," a look of sharpness returned as she turned away again.

"When Jacque died, I despised the name," she hissed, "From that moment on I returned to my given name, Christine was a woman with hope and a strong belief in good, but the world is a wicked place, my dear. His death snapped me back in to reality. Of course there are moments when I am happy, life does go on. But Christine Giry died with him, a long time ago"

There was a jolt in the road at this point, which made Christine tumble forward in her seat. She went to apologise to Madame, when she got to it before her. "Welcome to Marble house of London mademoiselle," she murmured, gathering her cloak about her, one hand gesturing towards the window, that she might take a look.

In the final light of day, her jaw dropped open, for there before her was a giant house, bigger than even the Doges castle in Venice. Every inch of it was carved from the finest white stone, with statues lining the roof and grounds, of men on horses, of gargoyles, of lions. And one angel stood directly in each corner of the roof.

The gardens were lined with neatly trimmed hedges, where flowers were springing in to bloom, as were the shoots and vegetables in the plots, the honeysuckle that grew in the ivory around the windows. Through the wind, due to nearness, she could hear the trickle of the water from the fountains where Koye carp were swimming. All the way from Japan.

"I can see you like it," Madame Giry spoke matter-of-factly as they walked up to the entrance. "Its design was built by the men who built the opera house"

Christines brow furrowed in confusion, "Pardon my tongue Madame, but, I do recall a friend of mine saying the opera was built by only one man, Charles Garnier whom it is named after," she said, reciting the knowledge invested in her by little Jammes.

Smirking with great humour, as though she was in on a joke, Madame stated, "Then you were mistaken, Garnier's partner was a Monsieur Destler, as I recall," once through the door, they both shed their cloaks which were taken by a short woman with greying hair tied up in a bun, with a beautiful smile that seemed out of place on a mere servant.

"Come," Madame Giry snapped and Christine startled away from the oil portrait of roses hung upon the wall. "It is time for you to meet my daughter, Meg" With that, Madame marched off down a corridor between the two lots of grand stair cases, with Christine trailing behind once more.


End file.
